The Roman

Justina said nothing, her face deathly pale. She knew in that instant - that moment - as she glanced over to where her father sat, crushed and defeated, his head bent with the weight of his sorrow, that her life was about to change forever.

Looking away from her father, she saw Quintus’s lip’s curl in disgust at her father's weakness, and she shivered in trepidation as she recalled everything that Marsallas had told her about his uncle. His cruelty. His anger. His brutality. The callous way he treated everybody.

Even his only wife hadn’t escaped his tyranny. She had died a broken woman, a mere shadow of the vibrant woman she had once been according to Marsallas. And now it seemed that neither she, nor her father, would escape either.

It was, as if by some cruel twist of fate, that she had just become the main prize in some obscure contest, between uncle and nephew, and now between Quintus and her father.

And then, as if things couldn’t have gotten any worse, the door to the tablinum had flown open, and Marsallas had barged in, a furious look on his face as he took in the scene before him. It was obvious he had managed to escape from the slave, because the slave ran into the room moments later and grabbed him by his arms restraining him once more, when Marsallas had come to an abrupt halt inside the room.

“What in Jupiter’s name is going on?” he shouted, trying to wrestle out of the slave’s clutches, but his fight was futile as the slave's size and strength was so very much greater than his, and after a few moments he stopped in his attempts to free himself.

Quintus, confident now that his nephew was no threat to him, smiled over to him, “Ahh, Marsallas, I am glad you are here. You are just in time to congratulate me,” his tone was sarcastic. Then he raised his hand - the same hand that held Justina's - up in the air.

Marsallas stiffened, and his eyes narrowed when he saw their clasped hands, but refusing to be baited he remained mute.

“Nothing to say, boy? Well I’ll tell you then shall I? Justina has just agreed to be my mistress. She has been a bit remiss in not telling you what’s been going on, so I thought it was about time that you found out.”

A stunned silence fell in the room once Quintus had stopped speaking.

For what seemed like aeons, but in actuality was only seconds, Marsallas glared at his uncle before he finally broke eye contact and looked at Justina.

“Tell me it is not true, Justina?” He whispered, his eyes pleading, begging her to deny what his uncle spoke.

Justina bit back the tears that threatened to fall, when she saw the pained expression on his face, physically swallowing the lump of emotion that threatened to choke the very life out of her. Breaking eye contact with him, she turned slightly to look at Quintus, seeing in that instant the evil radiating out of him, the madness in his eyes, as he seemed to relish the misery he was inflicting on the three people in the room with him.

She knew with a certainty, that Quintus was capable of destroying them all if she didn’t acquiesce to his demands. He would crush each, and every one of them without a moment’s hesitation, if she denied anything he’d said.

So she turned, her face as pale as death, and her heart breaking into a thousand pieces, and said, “I’m sorry Marsallas. I-”

“You said you loved me Justina, only me,” he interjected, his face draining of colour as the enormity of what she was telling him sank in. And when she said nothing in her defence she saw him stiffen.

“All this time you were planning to be my uncle’s mistress?” Disgust replaced shock, and she saw his fists clench and unclench in rage, before he spat, “May you rot in Hades, Justina. I hope you remember me every night, whilst you lie on your back with your legs spread for him!”

And with that, he wrestled out of the slave’s grip, and the slave realising he was no longer a threat, had let him go

* * *

The light touch on her arm jolted her back to the present. Eyes focussing, she looked up at Diogenes, the same slave that had restrained Marsallas all those years ago on that fateful night.

“What?” Then she looked around her, surprised to see that the crowds were rapidly dispersing, the games finally over for the day. She shook her head slightly, “I'm sorry, Diogenes. I was far away.”

Then without another word, she stood up and followed the crowds out of the arena, leaving behind her past once more, her heart heavy and sad.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I’m sorry, Justina. There is nothing more I can do. I've made him as comfortable as possible.” Lydia said, as Justina entered the darkened bed chamber.

Justina nodded, as she walked over to where Lydia, her friend and a well respected healer, stood. “I understand, Lydia. Thank you for all your help.”

She spoke the words softly, and Lydia smiled at her, placing a hand on the younger woman’s arm in a gesture of comfort, as Justina looked down at Quintus who lay as still as death on his large bed.

“It is the least I could do. Do you need anything? A sleeping draught or something?”

Justina shook her head, “No, I will be fine. Thank you.”

Lydia said nothing more, but squeezed the younger woman’s arm in understanding before she left the room, closing the door with a soft click behind her. The finality of it caused Justina to shiver, her eyes automatically glancing over to a table along the back wall, seeing the wax death mask displayed so prominently. It had arrived that afternoon, rather appropriately she thought, as it now acted as a constant reminder of Quintus’s imminent death.

Looking away from the mask, she stared down at Quintus. He looked so still, as if he were already dead. The sunken hollows under his razor sharp cheekbones were so pronounced that no flesh remained on his face - or the rest of his body for that matter - and the blue veins on his hands stood out in stark contrast to the whiteness of his parchment thin skin. But she saw his chest move in small shaky movement’s, testament that he still clung to life, refusing to die, refusing to succumb to the disease that had been eating away at him for months now.

Justina sighed, and turned away, looking up at the man who stood silently next to his Master. “You can leave if you want, Diogenes. There is nothing more anyone can do.”

Justina didn’t expect a reply from the slave – he was a man of few words. But he didn’t leave and Justina shivered, ever so slightly in awe of the slave, even after all these years. She remembered the first time she had seen him, the feeling of shock that had assailed her as he loomed over her, black fathomless eyes staring down at her from a body nearly seven feet in height, and this, coupled with his massive strength – his chest alone was the size of three men’s - had rendered her immobile with fright.

His skin was as dark as mahogany, and his bald oiled head complete with earring, made him look like some giant pirate, but Justina knew that he had been captured many years ago as a young boy from Syria. She couldn’t tell how old he was, he seemed ageless somehow, but she knew that he must be at least forty years old by now-

A loud groan interrupted her thoughts, and she looked down at Quintus, surprised to see that he was awake for the first time since she had come back from Rome. Justina leaned over, and laid her hand on the cold skin of his forehead. “Shh, Quintus. Rest now.”

Quintus shook his head, and lifted a finger towards Diogenes, beckoning the slave forward. Once the slave had approached, Quintus rasped, “Lift me.”

“No Quintus, you must lie still,” she implored, a frown of concern on her face.

But Quintus ignored her, waving her away, and Diogenes, as ordered by his Master, lifted the old man until he was upright, placing a silk cushion behind his back. For several moments Quintus gasped for breath, the exertion causing him serious distress.

Eventually Quintus’s breathing steadied, and once he was able to breathe normally he looked over to Diogenes. “Leave,” he ordered.

Justina watched as the slave left the room, then she tensed when she saw his gaze come to rest on hers, a hard look in them eyes. She had seen that look many times over the past six years, and knew that it boded ill. Quintus beckoned her over, and Justina not having much choice, walked over to stand by his bed. He took her hand, his bony fingers gripping the softness of hers. “Did you see him? As I ordered you too?”

Justina stiffened, before she answered, “Yes.”

“And?”

“He won’t come.”

The three words held a wealth of meaning, and Quintus cackled. “Of course he wouldn’t.” He breathed hard, before he rasped, “And how was he?”

Justina frowned, not sure what he wanted her to say. But she spoke the truth anyway. “Hard. Indomitable. Full of hate.”

A cruel smile touched his lips, “Good. It was about time he became a man instead of fawning over you. What else?”

The question was fired rapidly, and Justina flinched slightly, “He said his life in Herculaneum was over, and he had no desire to return.”

“Not even for you?”

The question caused Justina’s heart to race, and she suddenly felt faint. Lifting her chin in defiance she fixed her gaze on his, refusing to be cowed. “No. Not even for me.”

Quintus’s eyes narrowed, the blue of his eyes like shards of ice, “Are you sure of that, Justina? He couldn’t keep his hands off you when he was younger.”

Justina sucked in her breath, refusing to answer his question. Instead she asked her own, “Why are you so full of hatred, Quintus?” Her voice was low, measured, with the depth of the emotion she was feeling, “Can’t you just leave it be? You know what you did tore us apart; can never be repaired. Be content with that as you lay here on your death bed.”

And with that she turned to leave, but his words halted her, causing a trickle of fear to course through her.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Justina. I’ve sown the seeds of hate once again,” he said cryptically.

Closing the door to Quintus’s bedroom, Justina made her way down the dark corridor, her brow furrowed as she thought of Quintus’s words. He was so bitter. So full of hatred. Even now, with his death imminent, he still festered a hatred for his nephew that defied logic.

Deep in thought, she was unprepared for the shadow that suddenly came to life from behind one of the marble columns. She stiffened, instantly on the defensive, thinking it was Secundus.

But it wasn't Secundus, and Justina she felt her heart lurch in surprise when she saw Marsallas standing there.

Had it been five whole days since she’d seen last seen him? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Her stomach muscles contracted as she took in a deep breath, watching as he came towards her, his eyes burning into hers so intensely that she didn’t know whether to run away from him, or run into his arms such were the myriad of feeling coursing through her.

She did neither. Instead she merely stood her ground. A shiver ran through her, trickling down her spine like ice cold mountain water. Eventually she found her tongue, and silently cursed the husky tone of her voice as she said, “You have come.”

The words once blurted out, now sounded stupid, and she blushed in mortification. It didn’t help when she saw Marsallas’s mouth quirk in a slight smile at her gaucheness.

"So I have.”

Those three words held a wealth of meaning, and Justina looked away as an awkward silence fell between them.

"Is Quintus in there?”

Turning her head back to him, she became aware that he had moved closer to her and her lips were now no more than a whisper away from his. Her stomach plummeted as she fought the urge to fuse her lips with his. To taste him. All of him.

“Yes,” she finally answered.

“Can I see him?”

Justina nodded. “He was still awake when I just left.” For a moment she wondered whether she should mention the conversation that had just taken place. Making up her mind quickly, she blurted out, “He wasn’t in a very good mood, I’m afraid. He was questioning me about you…”

Her words trailed off. For a long moment Marsallas said nothing, just stared down at her, his eyes expressionless. Then he walked past her and stopped in front of the door, before he turned to where Justina was still standing, “Will you come in with me?”

For a moment she hesitated, unsure. But then she saw a glimpse of uncertainty – fleeting – but none the less there – enter his eyes before it was blinked away. “Yes. Of course,” she said, making up her mind.

* * *

“Quintus? Marsallas is here,” Justina whispered, unsure whether he was asleep or not, as his eyes were now closed. For a few moments silence reigned in the room until Quintus’s eyes suddenly shot open, causing Justina to jump slightly with the unexpectedness of it. His eyes bored into hers briefly, before they swivelled to where Marsallas stood on the other side of the bed.

For an indeterminably long time both men stared at each other, each of them taking the others measure.

Considering how ill Quintus was, Justina was surprised to see anger and hatred radiating out of Quintus’s eyes, before his lips, parchment thin, curled in disgust as he looked his nephew up and down.

Eventually Quintus spoke, “Well, what a surprise. My long lost nephew returns at last.”

Justina held her breath, amazed by the vitriol she could hear in Quintus’s voice, and she glanced over to Marsallas awaiting his response.

“Uncle,” Marsallas nodded in greeting, his tone neutral. But the word held a wealth of feeling, and Justina ached with pity for him. Inwardly she was annoyed with Quintus. Hadn’t Marsallas come to see him as ordered? And now that he had, Quintus was still angry with him! It seemed that nothing Marsallas could do would ever please his uncle.

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